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Authors: David Donachie
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gave the perusal to his underlings, he could take a fair stab the ploy Barclay was seeking to execute.
Being close to his master, Toomey also knew why he was being handed the list, just as he knew that it provided, if accepted, an excuse for the admiral to grant HMS Semele permission to depart ahead of vessels more in need of revictualling. The two exchanged a non-committal look before Barclay proceeded past the marine sentry to the cabin door, opened for him by a second guard.
‘Captain Barclay, you are most welcome even if your request intrigues me. I take it you will join me in a glass of this Tuscan wine, which I can assure you is more than a match for claret.’
Sir William Hotham was smaller than his visitor, slightly pink of face, the skin smooth, with none of the rough, red visage common to sailors. As much a courtier as a navy man he had come to his present position through the powerful patronage of the Duke of Portland, now a member of the Pitt administration, having split with his faction from his Whig colleagues to support the prosecution of the war.
There had never been any doubt in Ralph Barclay’s mind that Hotham would settle with ease into his role as C-in-C Mediterranean. The man had worked for high and independent command all his life. To have achieved it would be, to his way of thinking, nothing but a rightful recognition of his abilities. In his manner and appearance, full uniform with flashing gold epaulettes and a newly powdered wig, he looked very much the part.
‘Delighted to do so, sir. Any word on the French?’
‘Supine, Barclay, supine. I worry that they so fear me they will never leave Toulon.’
It was typical of Hotham to make personal what was collective. The enemy would be in fear of the British Fleet, not its commander, but he let the hyperbole pass without even a raised eyebrow and moved more swiftly than was strictly polite to what he had come to say.
‘While what I fear, sir, is to be so low on victuals and water that it will affect my ability to take part in a chase and an action should they do so.’
The frown was to be expected; how much it was performance and how much genuine Barclay did not know but it indicated a degree of discomfort. The two were very different; the man visiting knew that. For all they had gone to sea at the same age and suffered the rigours of being midshipmen, then lieutenants and finally very junior captains, their lives had taken a very different course.
Hotham had always enjoyed powerful connections and had been many times made welcome at court. Ralph Barclay did not, and had never even been close enough to King George to exchange a single word. He also depended on this man to help him prosper, albeit such a connection was a two-way affair.
That said, it never would do to fully trust an admiral and Ralph Barclay was no different from his peers in not doing so. He had only got his posting to join the Mediterranean Fleet due to his ability to possibly embarrass another even more senior flag officer, Black Dick Howe, who had led the Home Fleet to success against the French on the First of June.
Nor was he convinced that the actions Hotham had taken to get rid of John Pearce had been done in any respect as afavour to him. The admiral had his own reasons, not least the fact that it was he who had set up the court martial to try Ralph Barclay for illegal impressment.
That it was a conspiracy to acquit would never stand up to examination and nor would the fact that Hotham had made sure no hostile witnesses were present to testify. Pearce had been sent away on a voyage to the Bay of Biscay; with him had gone anyone who could have told the truth about that night in the Liberties of the Savoy: Lieutenant Henry Digby, Midshipman Richard Farmiloe and a trio of hands from the lower deck.
Only Toby Burns, Barclay’s nephew by marriage, had been kept back and he, being the weakling he was, had been browbeaten into committing perjury. And there was the nub
Being close to his master, Toomey also knew why he was being handed the list, just as he knew that it provided, if accepted, an excuse for the admiral to grant HMS Semele permission to depart ahead of vessels more in need of revictualling. The two exchanged a non-committal look before Barclay proceeded past the marine sentry to the cabin door, opened for him by a second guard.
‘Captain Barclay, you are most welcome even if your request intrigues me. I take it you will join me in a glass of this Tuscan wine, which I can assure you is more than a match for claret.’
Sir William Hotham was smaller than his visitor, slightly pink of face, the skin smooth, with none of the rough, red visage common to sailors. As much a courtier as a navy man he had come to his present position through the powerful patronage of the Duke of Portland, now a member of the Pitt administration, having split with his faction from his Whig colleagues to support the prosecution of the war.
There had never been any doubt in Ralph Barclay’s mind that Hotham would settle with ease into his role as C-in-C Mediterranean. The man had worked for high and independent command all his life. To have achieved it would be, to his way of thinking, nothing but a rightful recognition of his abilities. In his manner and appearance, full uniform with flashing gold epaulettes and a newly powdered wig, he looked very much the part.
‘Delighted to do so, sir. Any word on the French?’
‘Supine, Barclay, supine. I worry that they so fear me they will never leave Toulon.’
It was typical of Hotham to make personal what was collective. The enemy would be in fear of the British Fleet, not its commander, but he let the hyperbole pass without even a raised eyebrow and moved more swiftly than was strictly polite to what he had come to say.
‘While what I fear, sir, is to be so low on victuals and water that it will affect my ability to take part in a chase and an action should they do so.’
The frown was to be expected; how much it was performance and how much genuine Barclay did not know but it indicated a degree of discomfort. The two were very different; the man visiting knew that. For all they had gone to sea at the same age and suffered the rigours of being midshipmen, then lieutenants and finally very junior captains, their lives had taken a very different course.
Hotham had always enjoyed powerful connections and had been many times made welcome at court. Ralph Barclay did not, and had never even been close enough to King George to exchange a single word. He also depended on this man to help him prosper, albeit such a connection was a two-way affair.
That said, it never would do to fully trust an admiral and Ralph Barclay was no different from his peers in not doing so. He had only got his posting to join the Mediterranean Fleet due to his ability to possibly embarrass another even more senior flag officer, Black Dick Howe, who had led the Home Fleet to success against the French on the First of June.
Nor was he convinced that the actions Hotham had taken to get rid of John Pearce had been done in any respect as afavour to him. The admiral had his own reasons, not least the fact that it was he who had set up the court martial to try Ralph Barclay for illegal impressment.
That it was a conspiracy to acquit would never stand up to examination and nor would the fact that Hotham had made sure no hostile witnesses were present to testify. Pearce had been sent away on a voyage to the Bay of Biscay; with him had gone anyone who could have told the truth about that night in the Liberties of the Savoy: Lieutenant Henry Digby, Midshipman Richard Farmiloe and a trio of hands from the lower deck.
Only Toby Burns, Barclay’s nephew by marriage, had been kept back and he, being the weakling he was, had been browbeaten into committing perjury. And there was the nub
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